


A Dance

by LucyLovecraft



Category: Ogniem i Mieczem | With Fire and Sword (1999), Trylogia | The Trilogy - Henryk Sienkiewicz
Genre: Dancing, Established Relationship, Flirting, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 11:09:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13902774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucyLovecraft/pseuds/LucyLovecraft
Summary: “Dance with me.”  Jan’s eyes said everything polished manners could not: a finely calculated offer of both challenge and of temptation.Jurko Bohun had seldom refused either.





	A Dance

**Author's Note:**

> The most shameless fluff I've ever written. I'm usually an angst and suffering monster, and then _this_ happened. Prompt fills are crack.

“Dance with me.”

Jan knelt, holding out his hand. The lieutenant was perfection by firelight: fine-cut features, a glimpse of exposed skin at his neck, broad shoulders tapering to slim hips, with the weight of his swordbelt drawing the gaze downward. Head high, eyes bright, posture erect, clad in his fine crimson _kontusz_ , he looked every inch the gallant chevalier.

The proposal did present certain challenges, however. Bohun raised an eyebrow, continuing his song. There was, after all, no one else to play it.

“Dance with me,” Jan said again. His face was a perfect mask of courtly courtesy, but he could not hide a certain smug satisfaction. In that moment Jan Skrzetuski was irresistible, and he knew it. His eyes said everything polished manners could not: a finely calculated offer of both challenge and of temptation.

Jurko Bohun had seldom refused either.

The Cossack put aside his lute and took Jan’s hand.

As Jan rose, Bohun carried on the tune, humming the melody in his rich, dark voice.

Jan grinned like a boy as he slipped his arm around Bohun’s waist. Slow and stately, he spun them in looping circles round the fire with the practised grace of a courtier and a soldier’s strength. Bohun had his own grace: less polished, less restrained, but his musician’s heart kept every step in perfect rhythm. That they moved so well together would have seemed strange to any who had not seen them, but each was a perfect complement and counterpart to the other.

“You dance beautifully,” Jan said, swinging them round again.

“And I’m sure you told every girl at court that.”

Jan laughed. Bohun noted (with amusement) that the Pole did not deny the accusation.

“Perhaps something a little faster?” Jan said, and began to hum a different tune.  
  
“Think you’ll be able to keep up?” Bohun asked, and threw himself into the dance.

Jan whirled through every step, turning his head each time to bring his gaze back to Bohun. Though the Cossack was not smiling, he radiated a kind of Dionysian ecstasy: alive inside the rhythm, each stamp of their feet and clasp of their hands as much a part of him as his own heartbeat.

Jan needed all his breath now to sing, but Bohun soon joined him. Between the two of them they sang sometimes as a duet, sometimes by turns, keeping the music alive between them.

When at last they came spinning through the crescendo at the end of the song into the stillness beyond, Bohun had his arms around Jan’s shoulders like any maiden. Yet he did so with an unselfconscious ease that made it seem as natural to Jan that a sun-darkened Cossack should be taking the part usually filled by a blushing girl as it did that Jan should love that same Cossack. His arm was still around Bohun’s waist, and Jan could feel the lean athleticism of the body beneath the heavy mantle.

“You do dance beautifully, though,” Jan told him.

Bohun snorted, not displeased.

Jan took that moment to slide his hand down the small of Bohun’s back, and lower.

“Are you going to let me go?” The Cossack asked mildly.

Jan tightened his grip, pulling him in closer. His smile became less courtly—oh, _far_ less courtly.

“I think not. I’m afraid you have quite a reputation.”

“We are not playing this game.”

“We are. Because I’m afraid,” Jan said, kissing him, “that I have designs upon your virtue.”

This was, perhaps, rather much to ask of Jurko Bohun, famed hero and _ataman_ of the Zaparozhian Cossacks. Bohun certainly thought so. Seizing Jan he carried him to the ground. Bohun grinned down at him with an expression that made Jan’s heart beat _accelerando_.

“And how,” Bohun asked, “would you like to see how the girls like it in Zaparozhia?”

“Oh, I think— _oh._ ”

“We are but simple folk. None of your fancy _Lachy_ customs.”

“That is indeed… very direct,” Jan gasped.

“Yes,” Bohun said.

Jan very quickly lost the power of speech, though the noises he made did establish a certain rhythm.

Smiling to himself, Jurko Bohun began to hum again, and this time his music was not interrupted.


End file.
